


The Allure of Sweatervests

by mizzmarvel



Category: Baby-Sitters Club - Ann M. Martin
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-09
Updated: 2005-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizzmarvel/pseuds/mizzmarvel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to marcyleecorgan and watcher_shadow for encouraging this fic that never should have been written.  I'm sorry for the suck.  Takes place before the mainstream BSC series.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Allure of Sweatervests

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to marcyleecorgan and watcher_shadow for encouraging this fic that never should have been written. I'm sorry for the suck. Takes place before the mainstream BSC series.

Richard had never seen the guy before. Honestly, he’d never seen _most_ of the people at the party, because, well, he didn’t _go_ to them. Four years of his roommate’s urging had finally worn him down, though – “You’re supposed to be a little wild your freshman year” had not worked, “Second year, time to let loose” was not successful, “You can drink legally now,” had no effect, but “If you won’t your senior year, when will you?” rather hit home.

So out he went, tagging along behind his not-terribly-popular-but-certainly-more-popular-than-him roommate, off to one of the frat houses (he wasn’t sure which one – it had a Lambda in it) to celebrate the winning of some big game (he wasn’t sure which sport). And he was feeling pretty good about it, brave, adventurous, when not even five minutes after stepping in the door, that _jerk_ smirked at him and called, laughingly, “Nice sweater vest!”

And that’d just ruined Richard’s momentum, really, partially because he’d actually thought it _was_ rather nice. His shoulders sagged, and he got anxious; he was out of place here, clearly, his neat knit sweater vest marking him like a Crip in Blood territory. He shook his head when his roommate offered him a beer, stayed silent when people came over to talk, and crossed his arms self-consciously across his chest.

Finally, his one friend there, his protector, politeness and loyalty diminished by alcohol consumption and having to deal with moody foolishness, snapped, “For fuck’s _sake_ , Richard, can’t you lighten up and have fun for one fucking night?”

After watching him stalk off into the deeper recesses of the frat house, Richard, wide-eyed, chest tight, backed against the wall.

I am twenty-two-years-old, he thought to himself. There is no cause for alarm. I can deal with this.

But he stayed there, in a dark corner, for a good thirty minutes, perhaps more, not moving at all. People passed, giving him quizzical looks or just too drunk to notice anything. As time went on, the latter increasingly became the norm.

Finally, one of them, holding a cup of _some_ thing, glanced at him, did a double take, and grinned, crooked and just a bit like a small boy who’d done something naughty. (Not that Richard knew from personal experience; he’d been a very well-behaved child.) It was the _guy_ , the _jerk_ , the one who’d ruined his evening and made his roommate hate him, who was apparently looking to make him even angrier. Pointedly, Richard stared away (fixing, unfortunately, on a puddle of vomit across the room, but that couldn’t be helped), but the guy didn’t take the hint and walked over, leaning against the wall next to him.

“What’re you doing here?” the jerk asked, in a tone that was more amused than jerk-like.

Richard frowned, still not making eye contact.

“I came with my roommate,” he answered stiffly.

“That one guy? Okay, new question – what’s _he_ doing here?”

“Well, what are _you_ doing here?” Richard snapped. It wasn’t polite, but then, this guy had done away with manners even before introductions had been made.

“I’m on the baseball team,” the guy said, as if that solved all the questions the universe had to offer.

Richard wondered briefly if that had been the team who’d won. “Well, I heard that everyone was invited.” He’d heard it from his roommate, true, but it counted.

“Yeah, sure, but that doesn’t mean everyone shows up.”

Richard pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose and looked at him as imperiously as he’d imagine Atticus Finch would. “Well, I’ll take my opportunities when they come, thank you.”

The guy stared for a moment, blankly, then started to laugh. “I like you,” he said.

…incredible! All in an instant, social acceptance of a peer flowed into Richard’s brain, his pores, as intoxicating and heavy as a lotus flower. He felt a bit light-headed, the blood rushing to his face with joy.

Then the next instant came, and the guy pushed his cup at him and said, “Want a drink?”

Richard stared at the cup dubiously.

“Don’t tell me you don’t drink,” the guy said, laughing.

“I drink!” Richard protested, neglecting to add, Sometimes, such as light dessert wines, at formal functions.

“Then here.” He shook the cup a little, as if tempting a kitten with a piece of string. “It’s just beer.”

Richard Spier was a man of responsibility. In fact, he had been a man of responsibility since he was one-and-a-half and had fastidiously potty-trained himself one afternoon. He knew drinking, essentially alone, in an unfamiliar place, offered by a stranger, was perhaps not the right course of action to take. Yet, he was also a man of logic, and he knew that, in a house full of men, most of whom did not know he even existed, a few hundred yards from his own dorm room, he was not in much danger.

There was also that acceptance. For those who are not easily liked, there is little need for peer pressure.

Tentatively, but trying not to show any hesitation, Richard took the cup, and raised it to his lips. It was acrid, flat tasting, and cheap; in short, it was exactly like any alcohol to be found on a college campus, though Richard wouldn’t have known that.

“It’s just beer,” the guy said, encouragingly. “It’s good stuff.”

“How do you know?” Richard murmured around the rim.

“I already drank half that cup.”

Richard sputtered, coughing a little. “You - _communicable diseases_ \- ”

The guy laughed, slapping him on the back. “Come on, I’ll get you something fresh.”

He led Richard through the crowd with the know-how of a regular, someone who belonged, someone whose name was known by everyone present; briefly, Richard pictured Norm from _Cheers_ , though this fellow was decidedly trimmer, with dark hair and a tan.

They wove their way through the kitchen, up some stairs, down a dark, dank hall that smelled, Richard imagined, like an armpit, but then, Richard had never been one to go around sniffing armpits. The guy opened one of several dirty white doors, and against his better judgement, Richard followed. He stared warily at the peeling walls, the rumpled bed, and dirty, caseless pillow while the guy took another cup and poured out two drinks.

“Here,” he said, and handed it to Richard as he took a gulp.

Richard took it, and stared down into the contents.

“This isn’t beer,” he said finally, a bit puzzled.

The guy rolled his eyes, chuckling. “It’s _vodka_.”

“Oh,” Richard responded, and sipped.

What Richard didn’t understand – one of many thing he did not understand about that night – is that understanding theories about how one should drink responsibly are all well and good, but if one lacks practical experience, everything can go to shit quite rapidly. Within not much time, he found himself sitting on that disgusting bed, his third drink in his hand, pouring out his soul.

“Name’s Sharon,” he said, slurring slightly.

“Uh huh,” the guy answered, still remarkably lucid after several more drinks than Richard.

“Love a my life.”

“Yeah.”

“An’ she’s carted off to where? California. With the movie stars. Just ‘cause her, her parents don’t like me. Know why?”

“Nope.”

“’Cause I’m _poor_. ‘Cause my dad’s a mailman. Well, know what? I’m not gonna _be_ a mailman.”

“All your college would go to waste.”

“Zactly.” Richard took a long drink.

“Know what I think?”

“What?”

“You don’t need her.”

“Who?”

“Your girl!”

“Sharon? But she’s – ”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, gorgeous, smart, nice, rich as fuck. And look what it’s doing to you! Haven’t seen her since high school, and you’re still crying over her? What the hell is that about?”

“Maybe I just have a sensitive soul.”

“Like hell you do! No one could wear a sweater vest and penny loafers – ”

“I _like_ penny loafers!”

“ – and be poetic, or romantic, or _whatever_. Did you even ever fuck her?”

“We. Were waiting for marriage.”

“Jesus _Christ_!” The guy stood up, pointing his glass of vodka at him. “You, my man, just need to get laid. And you do _not_ need a fucking woman for _that_.”

Richard stared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me! And you _don’t_ need a woman for _that_.”

“…excuse me?”

And that is how Richard got pushed back on the bed roughly, vodka cup knocked out of his hand and splashing all over the floor (who’d clean that up, not this guy, certainly), glasses slipping down his nose, sweater vest pulled up past his navel, sensible black slacks unzipped and yanked _down_ , underwear scoffed at (“Tightie whities?”) and pulled past his hips, penis jerked, licked, sucked (mouth burns like all that alcohol), his hands in the guy’s hair, knuckles white, _ejaculation_ , guy _swallowing_ , looking up and grinning, then going back for more, three times in an hour, then Richard walking home alone, dazed in the early morning hours, rumpled and actively repressing.

That’s how it happened all right.

*

The house on Bradford Court was perfect to raise a family. It was small, secluded, with several other couples with young children. Apparently, others agreed, because the house next door was bought within a week of going on the market. Being a gracious woman, friendly and warm, Alma went next door with an applesauce cake to welcome the new neighbors. He came downstairs that morning, at the same time as always, hearing his wife chattering animatedly with another feminine voice. She looked up at him and smiled when he entered the kitchen.

“Richard! This is Elizabeth Thomas, our new neighbor.”

“Hello,” he said politely, shaking her hand.

“So nice to meet you…I love this neighborhood, everyone’s so nice. You really ought to meet my husband. He’s around outside somewhere.”

“I’d love to, but I should be leaving for – ”

“Richard,” Alma said softly, putting a hand on his arm, and he quieted.

“No, he’s right there, in the side yard. Patrick! Come meet the Spiers,” and a man strode into the kitchen.

What Richard did not understand about repression, it seems, is that memories can be unrepressed. One reminder to the senses can bring it all back, good as new – a smell, a single sound, or, say, the visual stimulus of the man who’d given him oral sex nearly ten years previously.

Richard would have broken out in a cold sweat, if gentlemen did such things. Rather, he broke out in a cold perspiration.

“Hello,” the guy – Patrick – said, extending a hand.

“Hello,” Richard answered politely, and shook.

Alma and Elizabeth looked at each other. They’ve made friends, their eyes said.

Don’t recognize me, Richard’s eyes said.

“I like your sweater vest,” Patrick said.

Richard’s entire body screamed.

*

That night, after work, Richard bought a single can of Coors, and drank it later, long after Alma had gone to bed.


End file.
